


A Murder of a Kind

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: A murder of a kind, Gen, Humour, They were roommates!, just doing batshit stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: He’d never considered himself the type to kill but there was only so far you could push a man.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 24





	A Murder of a Kind

Morse sat on the side of his bed staring at the wall with red rimmed eyes and a pounding headache. He felt like he was going mad. He reached out a shakey hand for the crystal tumblr on his bedside table. He let the last drop slide down the glass to his lips where it spread and disappeared before it could even reach his tongue. The glass rattled with distress as he set it back against the wood. 

_La - la - la - la_

He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to throw the glass, to smash it against the wall like his shattered psyche. If only he could get some sleep! One moment of rest where he didn’t hear the hellish cries in his mind. 

_La - la - la - la_

Tonight. He’d fix it. It would all be over. This nightmare world he’d been living in for a week. He’d thought it would be fine. He could deal. But now he was haunted. Disturbed. 

Dying. 

Tonight he would end it all. 

Morse waited until he heard Jim turning the lights out. The faint clicks of lamps, kitchen, sitting room, front foyer. Heard his heavy footsteps from the bathroom to his own bedroom. Heard the creak and click of the door closing. 

And then another half an hour. He stared at the wall waited longer just to be sure Jim was well and surely sleeping. 

_La - la - la - la_

He dug his nails into his palms to drive the sound from his mind and then rose to change his clothes. Black trousers. A black turtlenecked jumper. Black socks. He didn’t want to make a sound or be seen. His work was dirty, the death that was coming would need to be quiet and swift. He’d never considered himself the type to kill but there was only so far you could push a man. 

Black gloves. And then, clicking out his own light, he picked up his keys from the table as quietly as he could. 

Morse slipped from his room and paused in the hall. He cast his eyes to the crack under Jim’s door. Yes, he was asleep. Faintly he heard a stuttering snore. 

Even that was like birdsong compared to the twisted cacophony in his mind. 

Morse moved as quietly as he could towards the door, paused to listen again, to hear the snore rise and choke in Jim’s chest, then die down as the larger man rolled over in his tiny bed and resettled. 

And Morse kept walking. 

He passed the kitchen. Through the foyer. He ignored the dining room and slipped into the sitting room. 

_La - la - la - la_

He gripped his keys in frustration and froze when they tinkled metallic much louder than he intended. He held his breath, deathly afraid to be caught, and when no retribution came, finally relaxed. 

There. 

In the corner. 

Jim’s trombone sat reflecting the streetlights through the curtains, shining as a car passed distantly and the beams struck through the house. Morse’s form was illuminated menacingly, his shadow cast upon the wall as if he were an intruder in his own home, but then it was black again and he breathed. 

His eyes drifted from the trombone to the LP tucked beside it. He licked his lips. 

_La - la - la - la_

His heart was pounding, his headache getting worse, the booming noise in his head could not be ignored, not now that he was staring the perpetrator right in the face. 

Like an art thief, a master criminal, the pink panther himself, Morse swiped the LP from under the trombone to prevent collateral damage. 

With an exhale of relief he knew he was close. So close to relief. 

He looked down at the LP in his hands, the black and white face of a man shyly glancing out of frame, the colourful fun letters plastered across the graphic. He hated him. 

_La - la - la - la - LA- LA - BAMBA!!!!_

As another car passed by, another flash of light illuminated him in the dark, Morse hissed venomously and wielded his key at the unsuspecting vinyl, “Damn you to hell, Ritchie Valens!” 

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this [tiktok](http://vm.tiktok.com/ZS37M3Er/) and @guardianoffun.


End file.
